"Not young," he thought. "A poor man apparently. It all comes from poverty and from fear, too."
He remembered the Smokestack, and trembled.
"He'll kill me," he thought. Then he grew sorry for the Smokestack.
The buildings looked down upon him with dim, tired eyes. The noise of the street crept into his ears insistently, the cold liquid mud squirted and splashed. Klimkov was overcome by a sense of gloomy monotony. He recalled Rayisa, and was drawn to move aside, away from the street.
The man he was tracking stopped at the steps of a house, pushed the bell button, raised his hat, fanned his face with it, and flung it back on his head, leaving bare part of a bald skull. Yevsey stationed himself five steps away at the curb. He looked pityingly into the man's face, and felt the need to tell him something. The man observed him, frowned, and turned away. Yevsey, disconcerted, dropped his head, and sat down on the curb.
"If he only had insulted me," he thought. "But this way, without any provocation, it's not good, it's not good."
"From the Department of Safety?" he heard a low hissing voice. The question was asked by a tall reddish muzhik with a dirty apron and a broom in his hands.
"Yes," responded Yevsey, and the very same instant thought, "I ought not to have told him."
"A new one again?" remarked the janitor. "You are all after Kurnosov?"
"Yes."